by Juliet Grey
Just then, the lively gavotte ceased. I clasped the comtesse de Saint-Pol about the wrist and touched my finger to my lips. The relative silence between dances would threaten to betray our position.
“Boutez en avant!” the du Barry said tersely, invoking her motto. “Push forward.” As she stepped out of the shadows, the magnificent emerald-and-ruby choker about her throat caught the light, distilling it into thousands of fractured sparkles. The Barryistes dispersed, leaving only Zamor to trail after the comtesse on his short legs, until he too, was swallowed into the mass of revelers.
“Mon Dieu!” gasped the comtesse de Saint-Pol. “I had no idea the court wath tho exthiting!” But then, even behind her mask I could tell that her expression had grown dark with concern. “Wath that treathon?” she whispered. “Should we tell the king?”
I shook my head. “Unfortunately, I think there will be nothing we can do about what we heard tonight. Except despair. And hope—desperately hope—that it does not come to pass. The comtesse believes she can have everything she desires because she pleases the king. But,” I said, seeing, for the first time, my own power reflected in the du Barry’s machinations, “her influence will not last and she knows it.”
TWENTY-THREE
Rumblings and Grumblings
Less than two months after the celebration of my fifteenth birthday, Madame du Barry got her wish: After years of faithful service to the king, on New Year’s Eve, December 31, 1770, the duc de Choiseul was invited to retire to Chanteloup, his château in the country. I was heartbroken; and I was angry. His political and diplomatic strategy had brought me to this place, elevated me from being the youngest archduchess of Austria to a breath away from becoming queen of France. My eyes wet with tears, I bade him farewell and thanked him for all he had done. I did not expect to meet his like again; certainly I would not find it in the ambitious and unctuous duc d’Aiguillon whom the king had appointed Choiseul’s successor. I had an inexplicable feeling that it was the comtesse du Barry who was the duc d’Aiguillon’s rumored clandestine lover. Basking in her triumph, she had moved into an even grander suite. Her new apartments were connected to the king’s own rooms by way of a secret staircase. Memories of my father’s long-standing affair with the glamorous Princess Auersperg flooded my mind: my mother’s silent tears; the grim faces; the false smiles; the lies. I could taste my disgust.
I penned a brief letter to Maman on the state of affairs, telling her that the king had replaced Choiseul with the duc d’Aiguillon and held a lit de justice at which he suppressed the former Parlements, or judicial bodies from the various provinces. The Parlements had possessed the authority to assert themselves independent of any royal authority, which included blocking the crown from passing any laws. Papa Roi then ordered the creation of a new Parlement; his action was so autocratic that the Princes of the Blood, his cousins Condé and Conti, and the duc d’Orléans, refused to appear, in protest of the king’s overexertion of his will. For such insubordination, Louis banished them. A few ducs joined the protest as well, with the result that about a dozen of them had been exiled.
I understood nothing of politics, merely parroting what I had overheard and reporting it to my mother. My husband had a keener grasp than I, but even he was at pains to explain his grandfather’s actions. All I knew was that everything had begun with the dismissal of one of my few friends and Austria’s rare allies at Versailles. The loss of Choiseul made me more determined than ever to cut Madame du Barry down to size. But I vowed to do so with silence.
March 17, 1771
To Her Imperial Majesty Maria Theresa:
Monsieur le dauphin, who until recently had seemed either unaware of or indifferent to the current intrigues (or both), suddenly evinced a tremendous disdain for his tutor, the duc de la Vauguyon, as well as absolute contempt for the comtesse du Barry. His scorn is also directed at the duc d’Aguillon, and all those who belong to their party. This was of course brought to the king’s notice by the obvious source, along with hints that this change had been provoked by madame la dauphine, whom the Barryistes are convinced has the dauphin wrapped around her finger. I am informed that the king believes this propaganda and is displeased.
Consequently, madame la dauphine spoke to the king and said, with the consummate grace that comes so naturally to her, that she was sorry that her grand-père did not care for her enough to speak to her directly on what might please or displease him. Caught up short, the king looked extremely embarrassed, avoided all particulars, and assured madame la dauphine that he thought her charming and loved her with all his heart; he kissed her hand, hugged her, and assured her that he agreed with everything she had just said. The king’s rather maddening behavior is the result of his weak character and his habit never to scold his children. He would much prefer to bear what he does not like, rather than remedy it by a direct confrontation.
Your humble servant,
Mercy
March 31, 1771
Your Imperial Majesty:
In spite of the contents of my official dispatches, it is nearly impossible for Your Majesty to form a complete idea of the horrible confusion that reigns here in everything, particularly since the departure of the duc de Choiseul, who, owing to the king’s lassitude, was the true governor of France.
The throne is submerged by the indecency and extent of credit to the king’s favorite and the wickedness of the Barryistes. All decisions taken here depend on the caprices of the maîtresse en titre and the intrigues of a few ministers and courtiers. The nation exhales seditious suggestions and disseminates satirical publications in which the monarch himself is not spared. Versailles has become the center of lying, hatred, and revenge; everything is affected by intrigue and personal opinions, and it appears as if all good feeling has been abandoned.
I must, however, ask Your Majesty to do a bit of prevarication herself. The dauphine has begun to suspect the author of this dispatch as the source of Your Majesty’s intelligence regarding her day to day conduct and activities. I have endeavored to disabuse her of this notion, because if she is ever to learn the truth, I will lose her trust, and the same of course is true of her relationship with the abbé. But if you assure the dauphine that I am not your eyes and ears here, we may be able to continue as we have done, and may I say, indefinitely.
In reply to my last dispatch, Your Majesty commands me to state whether the king has taken to drink. The report is unfounded, but may arise from the frequent evidences of absence of mind resembling the aftereffects of intoxication. It is certain that the king’s head is becoming weaker, though it is more likely due to the natural effects of aging compounded by decades of political indecision and indolence.
Your humble servant,
Mercy
On the fourteenth of May, Louis Auguste’s brother, the comte de Provence (just fifteen days younger than I), waddled to the altar. His bride was the seventeen-year-old Marie Joséphine Louise of Savoy, and I do not think it would have been possible for the comte to have found a shorter, squatter, smellier wife. One might have overlooked her hairy upper lip or her beetle brows, or even her coarse, ruddy complexion; but it would have taken a brave soul to surmount his adversity to her overwhelming bodily odor. Papa Roi was so repulsed that he wrote to Marie Joséphine’s family in Savoy demanding that they compel the girl to wash her neck, and for him to take such a decisive tack, her filth must have been truly repugnant! I felt sorry for her ladies-in-waiting. Had she not been assigned a bath attendant as well? But Provence was terribly glib about his prowess in the boudoir, boasting to the dauphin and me that he had been made “four times happy” on his wedding night. I tried to cheer my husband by telling him I doubted that they were even once happy! At least I made Louis Auguste laugh when I said that I was certain they could not have consummated their marriage because the pair of them were so rotund that they could not even have located each other’s nether parts.
Luckily for them, the Provences were not subject to the same degree of etiq
uette that we, or the king, were. The higher the rank, the greater the number of rules governing our conduct. Although no one could punish the dauphine for failing to follow the proper etiquette of one thing or another, my transgression would become the subject of gossip; and the rumors, as they flew from mouth to mouth, might change shape, magnifying, or even transmogrifying the slightest breach into a chasm.
One chilly morning, during my lever, I had gotten undressed and was standing behind a folding screen, waiting for my undergarments. According to protocol, I could do nothing for myself. It was the office of my First Lady of the Bedchamber to prepare my underthings for the Mistress of the Household, who would then hand them to me, one by one, as I dressed. But these attendants would be superseded in their privilege of handing me my chemise by the appearance of a noblewoman of higher rank.
Shivering, I poked my head out from behind the screen, noticing that my Mistress of the Household had removed her glove in preparation to present my chemise. She was on the verge of handing me the undergarment when there was a scratching at the door; at Versailles, it was considered ill-mannered to knock.
My ladies paused to admit my visitor. It was the duchesse d’Orléans, the wife of a Prince of the Blood. So the duchesse began to peel off her glove so that she might have the honor of handing me my shift—when another scritch-scritch was heard at the door. My flesh by then was pebbled with cold, my nipples painfully erect. Would they please hurry—the dauphine is freezing her derrière off, I longed to cry.
My second visitor was my new sister, the comtesse de Provence, who outranked the duchesse d’Orléans. Already, I had had my fill of court etiquette for the day. “Oh, this is odious!” I exclaimed. “What a ludicrous inconvenience! Marie Joséphine, vite, vite! Quickly, I am about to perish from the cold!” I crossed my arms over my chest and rubbed them vigorously, hopping about to stay warm.
The comtesse de Provence, who was terribly nervous, as this was her first time attending my lever, hastened to remove her glove, but ran into difficulty peeling it over her plump forearm. “Here!” she cried. “I am so sorry. Pardon!” She grabbed my chemise and thrust it toward me, accidentally clouting me in the head and knocking off my mobcap. By that time I was so cold and so frustrated by the insanity of the entire charade that I lost my temper and scolded her for being so clumsy.
But when I came to know my new sister-in-law a bit better (for being the only young royal women at Versailles we were very much in each other’s company), I felt bad for having disparaged her appearance as well as her hygiene. Marie Joséphine’s northern Italian accent was charming, and she kept us in stitches the way she would mispronounce something so that it came out sounding like a different word entirely, completely changing the meaning of what she was trying to say. She didn’t smell any better, but what I first mistook for a cold and embarrassed demeanor turned out to be awe. She had never seen anything nearly as grand as Versailles. In private, she was rather sweet-natured and agreeable. In one of my letters to Maman I told her that my new sister “likes me very much and has much confidence in me.”
But Marie Joséphine and I would never entirely be friends. Now that the dauphin’s next younger brother was married, my husband and I had found ourselves in a race to procreate. It would be our son who would inherit the throne of France—but what if we did not have one? What if Louis Auguste and I never had a son? If the squat and swarthy comtesse de Provence bore her new husband a boy, that child might very well become king one day.
One thing was certain. The dauphin and I would most assuredly lose the competition if we failed to consummate our marriage.
On this point, Maman had much to say. I knew she had corresponded with Papa Roi on more than one occasion to ask—no, the empress of Austria did not ask; she demanded—what was wrong with my husband, and that Louis had tried to assuage her fears by insisting that the dauphin was still quite young and immature when it came to certain matters. All I knew was that Louis Auguste was a strapping youth, and if the king expected him to grow any further before he reached maturity, I would have wagered a month’s allowance that the direction of his growth would have been out, rather than up, for his grand passion was not me, but food.
Maman had written me a letter from Schönbrunn dated the eighth of May, although I did not receive it until after Provence’s nuptials.
May 8, 1771
I have in front of me as I write the miniature portrait which represents the image of my dear daughter Antoinette, but it does not bear the youthful look she had eleven months ago. Would that the cause of such strain was a change in your condition, but from what you tell me of your relations with the dauphin, it is clearly not the case. Therefore, I hope that the wedding which is shortly to take place will bring my wishes to fruition. Surely you cannot let the comte de Provence and his bride outstrip the dauphin and dauphine!
As concerns your conjugal situation, let me counsel you never to be ill tempered about it. Do not let frustration gain the upper hand. Rather, use caresses and cajoling—but sweetly, tenderly. If you are too urgent or impatient you will spoil everything. Let sweetness and patience be your only tools. Nothing is lost yet; you are both still so young. In fact, it is better for your health that you have waited; you are on the brink of maturity now. Remember, it is natural for us old parents to wish for a speedy consummation, so that we may live to see our grandsons and great-grandsons!
This brings me to the care and protection you show for your homeland. I am both surprised and disappointed that it is not as strong as I had expected. Trust me: The French will respect you more if you display the solidity and frankness that are the hallmarks of the German character. Making people like us is one of the chief amusements of a royal personage; and it is one of the things that you do to perfection! Do not lose this skill by neglecting everything that brought you this far: You owe it neither to your beauty (which is not terribly great), nor to your artistic abilities (which you know very well you lack). You must be doubly amiable, as you have no natural talents of your own. Remember, it is your amiability as well as your kind heart and your frankness, combined with your good judgment, that make you exceptional.
My love for you is boundless, Antoinette, so please forgive me for going on so. I have only your best interests at heart.
Before I close, I must tell you that it was not Mercy who provided me with all of this information about you; however, it may surprise you to hear how much we know here of your activities. Although I correspond with no one but yourself and your grand-père, many others are copious letter-writers, and do glean even the smallest details about your conduct.
Your loving Maman
TWENTY-FOUR
Envy
JUNE 1, 1771
The comte de Mercy affected a low bow as he entered my music room. As he rose, he realized that he was clearly outnumbered, not only by French, but by females. A cercle was just breaking up; and the capacious chamber, with its delicate white boiserie moldings enhancing equally creamy walls, resembled a hothouse of exotic and fragrant blooms—suffused with the scents of orange blossom and rosewater, frangipani and jasmine, lilac and lily of the valley.
I recognized the telltale signs that the ambassador wished to speak with me: the tight set of his jaw, despite a placid smile, and an expression of benign complacency in his eyes that masked the avidity to complete his errand.
I asked the comtesse de Noailles to shoo everyone from my apartments and motioned for Mercy to make himself comfortable. While we waited for the stragglers and servants to depart, the ambassador seated himself on a chair that had been abandoned by one of the ladies at the cercle; the ice blue satin brocade looked terribly dainty beneath his suit of tobacco-colored moiré.
“May I?” he asked me, reaching into a pocket for a small enameled box.
I nodded. “Where would you gentlemen be without your snuff?”
The comte snapped open the lid, and took a pinch of brown powder between his thumb and forefinger. “I don’t suppose
Your Royal Highness would care for a bit?” he teased.
We waited until the doors were closed around us. “I am always honored by your visits, monsieur le comte. Dites-moi, to what do I owe the pleasure today?” The ambassador frowned. “I don’t like that look. It heralds bad news. I am in no humor for bad news.”
“Well, then, it doesn’t have to be,” he said brightly, crossing one leg over the other. “Now, you tell me, madame la dauphine, what is this nonsense I have been hearing about your refusal to speak to the comtesse du Barry.”
My spine stiffened. “For one thing, monsieur l’ambassadeur, it is far from nonsense. The duchesse de Gramont—”
“Is a seasoned courtier who can fight her own battles,” the comte de Mercy interrupted. “Your mother and I applaud your loyalty to one of your ladies, particularly in light of her relation to the duc de Choiseul and his connection to our interests. But the duc is gone. And the Gramont is forgiven. And you began to snub the comtesse weeks before the Gramont affair took place. I understand that you received Madame du Barry here in your apartments.”
“That was before I found out what she was,” I replied stubbornly, drawing a circle in the carpet with the toe of my slipper.
“She is the king’s favorite,” Mercy said evenly.
“She is a whore,” said I, with venom in my voice.
The comte took another pinch of snuff with what sounded like an angry inhalation. He rested both feet on the rug. “Who told you that?”
At this I could not resist a laugh. “Why, comte de Mercy, is this a catechism? I have a stable full of priests for that, not to mention our dear abbé Vermond!”
But he would not be deterred from his course. “I asked who told you this, madame la dauphine?”
“Someone who is an image of propriety. Someone Maman herself urged me to consort with as frequently as possible. Someone with impeccable morals.”
